


The Fall of the House d'Orsay

by The_Last_Syllable



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Female De Sardet (GreedFall), Gen, Major Spoilers, Spoilers, it's pretty much a character study, not really about romance, preliminary denouement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23436442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Last_Syllable/pseuds/The_Last_Syllable
Summary: She regrets it the very instant she's done it. She regrets it deeply, profoundly. She wishes she had done something—anything—differently. But even now, heart welling with grief, she doesn't know what else she could have done.
Relationships: Constantin d'Orsay & De Sardet, De Sardet/Siora (GreedFall)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	The Fall of the House d'Orsay

**Author's Note:**

> _Son coeur est un luth suspendu;  
>  Sitot qu'on le touche il resonne._  
> -De Béranger
> 
> _Her heart is a lute suspended;_  
>  _As soon as it is touched, it resounds._

She regrets it the very instant she's done it. She regrets it deeply, profoundly. She wishes she had done something—anything—differently. But even now, heart welling with grief, she doesn't know what else she could have done. 

Talked to him? He was already far beyond reason, his mind shaken by death and perverted by the malichor, further intoxicated by power. She could not reason with him any more than she could bear to let him do this, to commit such terrible deeds on innocents. She could not let him corrupt the island, the creatures, and dear god, she couldn't let him corrupt the people—and it stood to reason he could corrupt at least the doneigada, like anything else tied to the power of En on míl frichtimen that he's stolen. God, what might he do to Síora? She would rather die than allow Síora to be corrupted—she remembers the guardians' weeping ulcers covering sickly flesh darkened by the black blood of the malichor's taint.

She could not allow Constantin to do this, any of it. 

Under other circumstances, it might be amusing to imagine the utter horror that would etch itself in the faces of the nobles of old Serene at seeing how completely both she and Constantin had "gone native," albeit in radically different and opposed ways. If only those self-important nobles knew they had created the malichor themselves, with their cruel vices and rampant exploitation of nature. It's why the Nauts are spared, living on the seas and taking no more from nature than they need.

But Constantin could not be allowed to do this to Tír Fradí. _She_ couldn't allow it. Yet still, the sorrow and regret that pierces her heart feels no less sharp and wicked than the blade she has just driven into the heart of the man she loves as her brother. She knew, coming here, that this would probably be how it ended.

"What a shame," he breathes, resigned like maybe he knew as well, and she knows, in this, he is right. He offered her apotheosis and instead she chose fratricide, regicide. If only he were to be a benevolent god, healing instead of corrupting. A true shame, indeed.

He falls, and she follows him to the ground, holding his dying body in her arms. As the life leaves his eyes she whispers, "Good night, sweet prince."

She remembers leaving her mother—her mother in act even if not in fact—behind to suffer and perish alone as the malichor slowly destroyed her. She regrets that more than she knows how to say, but it is a pale shadow of the wretchedness she now feels. At least Constantin need not die alone, instead held in the arms of his killer who loved him.

She collapsed at his side under the weight of it all, to stare at the cavern ceiling. Idly noting the damage from the guardian's beam, she wonders who will come find them. Petrus was the closest, but she imagines Síora will be the most motivated to reach the inner sanctum now that the beasts have turned passive. They'll probably arrive together, and perhaps Vasco will have followed Síora.

She should probably try to sit up, if only so they won't believe her dead upon seeing her lain among the signs of pitched battle. But she can't really find the strength of will to do so. She feels like she should be dead. She has slain her prince, slain the cherished brother of her heart. How does one live after murdering the person they've spent their entire life devoted to? She could not even remember a time before she looked after and doted on her cousin like a little brother. She had, until now, always loyally served her prince.

A while passes with nothing but her shallow breathing disturbing the stillness of the air, but eventually she hears Síora's voice come from the cavern entrance, Petrus dutifully in tow. It still surprises her sometimes that they've developed such an unexpectedly genuine friendship, even if it is at times heavily stilted by the cultural gulf between them. She imagines it makes sense in light of the impressive tolerance for the renaigse that saw Bládnid choose Síora as emissary to New Serene in the first place and which has only grown since. Petrus' understanding of natives having been tempered by his old affection for her doneigad mother no doubt helps.

Síora rushes over and grasps her by the shoulders, pulling De Sardet flush up against her kneeling form once she has checked her breathing. Slowly, De Sardet returns the embrace while listening to Síora muttering in her own language. She is far from fluent still, but the breathless relief in Síora's voice is unmistakable, as are several words of endearment and affection that she's learned of the language. It must say something about the natives, or more likely about Síora specifically, that unlike her experience with any other language, she has learned more terms of affection than curses or insults.

After Petrus finished his cursory examination of Constantin, he and Síora help her stand on legs that falter with every thought of her cousin.

"Petrus, can you carry him?" She asks, and realizes he might have just left Constantin here when he pauses. No doubt they would have come back with others for the body—as proof of their efforts, if nothing else—before leaving the cavern entirely, but she can't stomach leaving her cousin here a moment longer than she herself stays.

Petrus ends his pause with a nod and moves away to take up his burden. She is steadier now than when first held up, always steadier and more in control with Síora's presence, and Petrus walks beside them as they leave.

**Author's Note:**

> *The Fray's _How to Save a Life_ plays on Teer Fradee's smallest violin.*
> 
> I wrote this and figured I might as well post it. I may continue this more over the coming months, and then we'd see more romance and interactions and general shenanigans. All the companions would come up at least a bit. It'd lighten up a lot, too, but frankly the ending was dark so we're starting in the dark and working our way out. It'll probably manifest as a one-shot series acting as a kind of denouement.
> 
> Also, I wanted the title to be "The Fall of the House of d'Orsay" but that's technically redundant, since "d'Orsay" is "of Orsay" just like "De Sardet" is "Of Sardet." Then again, there is sort of precedent for titles like that, such as _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_. The simple fact is that such no longer actually represents "of" and is instead used as part of a name, such as in the opening epigraph by Pierre-Jean de Béranger, or such as when we talk of Leonardo da Vinci (so called because he was born in Vinci) or Manfred von Richthofen (the Red Baron). I _still_ decided against it because I'm a filthy pedant.


End file.
